


Shower Thoughts

by lemoncellbros



Series: Trouble's Works [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John Watson, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John in Denial, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, resolved tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 13:18:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16327004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: John didn't usually allow himself the luxury of a long shower, his thoughts usually becoming the best of him. In deciding to take a long shower, John becomes victim to his suppressed mind and argues with himself. This then leads him to bring the argument to Sherlock, because he needs to know why Sherlock cares for John and no one else.





	Shower Thoughts

John Watson had never been one for long showers.  
T  
hey didn’t make sense to him. He was a doctor; he understood it was as simple as getting in, getting clean, and getting out. That was a shower’s purpose.  
He didn’t feel the need to buy expensive Lush products and treat himself to half a spa at 7am in the morning. And as much as he loved Lady Gaga, he wasn’t cruel enough to subject Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock to his wailing of the entire soundtrack of “A Star is Born”. 

But today was different. 

Today he turned on the hot water, took out the hidden bottle of shampoo gifted to him by Mike Stamford (“it smells like apples and pine, John, I think someone will like it”), and stepped in. He had been steadfastly avoiding the reason for this scheduled shower all day, determined to keep any thought of it from his mind until now, hoping and praying that his thoughts would be allowed to flow like the water running through his hair. Unfortunately for him, his mind had other plans. 

As soon as he took a deep breath and let go, thoughts ricocheted in his head like a bullet shot in a steel room. Ping. Ping. Ping. 

John groaned and tried to focus on one. There it was; shooting off in the back of his head in a much more contained, dark area of his brain that resembled a conspiracy theorist’s house. (His head was by far no “mind palace”, he wasn’t that pompous, but it had different sections, like a hospital.) He centred his mind on that thought and there it was, brought to the very front of his brain. He inhaled. This could be bad.

Sherlock is my best friend-yes, he knew that-but how do I tell the difference between what is platonic and what is romantic? It’s not like I’ve had that much experience. Another thought blew up like a grenade before John could respond to the first.What about the difference between admiration and desire?  
A skeptical, more toxic section of his head responded, should people even admire their mates?BOOM, there went another one, quick to answer with its thoughts on the matter. Do I admire Mike Stamford or Greg Lestrade?No, said another one. John winced. This couldn’t be going anywhere good. 

Hell, do I even admire my sister? A concerned part of him asked, should I?

John determinedly kept his straight face. People who showed emotions in the shower were stars of dramas. He was not the star of a drama. Another thought ran wildly past, probably wearing a smug expression. Is Sherlock the only person you’ve ever admired in your life?

The less eloquent part of his brain simply answered, oh, fuck. 

His logic slapped that aside and suggested, think about others in my life when compared to Sherlock. What is different in my feelings towards him?

His less eloquent thought returned with a vengeance. OH FUCK. 

The smug one returned, probably flipping off his less eloquent thoughts and crossing his legs like Mycroft. Everything. Try everything. John realised that he had been scrubbing his hair with the shampoo for at least ten minutes now and took to rinsing it out, slightly embarrassed. His logic desperately tried to make another argument. Well of course I feel differently about Sherlock! He’s a bloody sociopath and the smartest, most amazing man I’ve ever met! It makes sense!

The smug one returned (he was starting to get annoyed with it now): Mycroft is just as smart and cold, if not more, than Sherlock, and you don’t consider him amazing or, dare I say, “fantastic!” John internally glared at himself. 

His logic was still waging a war, recalling scenes from his life in which people assumed he and Sherlock were dating. There were a lot. Damn right, the smug one answered. Wanna know why, dumbass? Because you two are so fucking gay, that everyone can see it but you. Even Sherlock thought you were asking him out when you first met him. His logic didn’t have a good comeback for that one. John angrily stomped his foot on the shower floor and almost slipped. He sighed. 

“I refuse to have a crush on Sherlock bloody Holmes. We are friends, and we will stay friends, because he does not feel that way about me. I’m not even sure I feel that way about him.”

The smug one grinned. You do.

“SHUT UP!” John shouted. He angrily turned off the water and went into his room, quickly changing into a jumper and trousers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, frustrated, and sank onto his bed. 

He couldn’t like Sherlock. He couldn’t love Sherlock. Sherlock was the only friend he had ever had, and that was far too precious to ruin with a stupid crush. He sat there warring with himself for another ten seconds before the devil himself kicked open the door, armed with a crowbar and his eyes wild. John jumped back in fright and Sherlock ran over to him. 

“John. Are you alright?” 

John looked at him incredulously. “Jesus Christ! Of course I’m alright, Sherlock, what dangers do you think were awaiting me in the shower?” 

Sherlock looked a bit taken aback. Slightly put out, actually. “You shouted.” 

“I did?” John thought back a few minutes and groaned. “I did.” 

“Yes, that’s what I just said,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Why?”

John shrugged, too tired to lie. “Arguing with myself.”

Sherlock blinked. “John, I am the sociopath, not you.”

“Yes yes, I know.” 

Sherlock blinked a few more times and shook himself out of his confusion. “Well, no matter. A client will be arriving in-” he checked his watch- “five minutes. Care for some tea?” 

The two of them headed downstairs to the living room. John started to make tea (because despite Sherlock asking, he never made it himself), waiting for their client to arrive. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, legs criss-crossed and hands folded. 

A beat.

“Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing.” John got out the sugar bowl for Sherlock’s tea.

Sherlock jumped up from his chair and took three quick, long strides over to John. “It is never nothing.” 

“What if I was being bothered by the weather? Would it still not be nothing then?” One sugar went into his tea. John felt himself tensing as Sherlock pressed on.

“It is never. Nothing.” 

John’s jaw clenched and he rounded on him, angry and frustrated. “Why do you say that? Why are my problems so important to you? It makes no sense. Most people just ask if i want a cuppa or if they can do anything about it, and if they can’t, they move on, but not you, Sherlock. You ask and you ask and you act like I am the most important person in the world when I’m not. All I am is a doctor with an important friend.” He stopped and stared at the counter, his breathing coming out a bit strained. There was silence for a few moments. Sherlock took his tea and added four more sugars. 

“Importance in the world is of no consequence to me.” 

John hated it, that cold, deadpan way he spoke, like whatever he said was a fact that everyone else had to deal with. John was sick of dealing with the facts. It was all he ever did. He’d grown so used to the facts that the actual emotions themselves were a mystery.

“However-” Sherlock continued, “Your importance to me is of great consequence.” 

John inhaled sharply and determinedly continued to stare at the counter.

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the side of his mug for a few moments, watching him. When he received no response, he went to sit at his chair again.  
John grabbed his arm faster than he had expected of himself. Sherlock looked back at him. That all too familiar tension rose between them, shimmering like heat waves in cold air. 

“Why. Am I. Of great consequence to you?” John did his best to contain his emotions, speaking between harsh breaks, like he was building a barrier. Sherlock stared at him.

“Because, John, you are the only person in my life that I have managed to care about. Completely, that is. Mycroft I may care about, but that is truly only halfway. You are the only person-the only one who I-” Sherlock paused. He was struggling to speak too, John realised. Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders, looking John straight in the eye. 

“The only one.” 

John released his arm. His smug side came bubbling to the surface, asking the question and going in for the kill. 

“The only friend, or…” 

Sherlock’s stare became stronger. “The only person I believe I have ever completely cared about, and the only person I believe I have ever...well. Loved, I think is the word.” 

John’s mind was silent for the first time all day. No bullets bouncing around, no grenades, no hospital rooms. Just white noise. Pure emotion. 

A moment passed. It was longer than it needed to be. 

John surged forward and grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his suit-stupid suit, why did he wear that, it was a Sunday afternoon, for God’s sakes-and firmly pressed his mouth against his. 

All he felt was warmth. Love. 

Something that John Watson, throughout all his years, had never found until now. 

J


End file.
